


time will remember us

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Borgias - Ambiguous Fandom, The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - The Parent Trap Fusion, Alternate Universe - USA, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Westeros, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Lineage & Legacies, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fic, Pseudo-History, Sibling Incest, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:22:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Short Borgias fics prompted and/or posted on Tumblr.





	1. Hogwarts AU

crocordile/jubah prompted "Lucrezia/Cesare, Harry Potter AU" for the three-sentence meme.

 

“Plenty of loyalty and discipline…I think…”

“I don’t  _care_ what you think,” said Lucrezia, “I want to be with my oldest brother and make my family proud and help my father, he wants to be Minister for Magic and we all have to do our part, okay, and—and if you take me away from Cesare, I swear I’ll find the worst curse I can and—”

"SLYTHERIN!” said the Hat.

* * *

an anon prompted "Cesare/Lucrezia, Hogwarts! :D" for the three-sentence meme.

 

Cesare and Lucrezia held little impromptu duels, Cesare to keep his band of followers in Slytherin in fighting trim, and Lucrezia because she enjoyed them. It was completely unofficial, of course, but news spread; members of other houses would come to see, and eventually offer their own challenges, especially the Gryffindors—and the professors, thinking this a practical way to improve their spellwork, turned a blind eye or surreptitiously watched.

So when Juan and Mary Moon challenged them, he had a veritable army of Gryffindors around: and after five years of grievances, they cheered when Cesare and Lucrezia blasted Juan off the platform.

 


	2. Genderbending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An academic take on genderbent versions of the Borgia children, particularly (of course) Lucretius and Cesarina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember exactly what kicked this off (beyond fiddling around with a graphic), but it definitely ended up more historical!Borgias than show!Borgias. I do have some showverse f!Cesare floating around somewhere; I'll add it if I find it again.

The boy who would become Il Valentino, the most feared man in Italy, was born outside Rome in 1480. Christened Lucretius for the Roman poet, he was the third of Rodrigo Borgia’s four children by Vannozza dei Cattanei. Although the cardinal had at least two older sons and daughters by other women, he always showed a particular preference for Vannozza’s children, and Lucretius, their only son, was his decided favourite.

Cardinal Borgia’s never-robust sense of discretion extended only so far as seeing the children brought up outside his own household, in the great Orsini palace in Rome. There, Borgia’s cousin Adriana del Milà—widow of an Orsini—oversaw the education of his children, as well as of her son and his affianced bride, Giulia Farnese, only slightly older than the four Borgia siblings. Nevertheless, Rodrigo embarked upon an affair with the famously beautiful Giulia (“la Bella”) not long after her marriage to Orsino Orsini, aided and abetted by her mother-in-law Adriana.

It must have made for a peculiar environment, perhaps most of all for Lucretius, who grew to manhood in a household almost entirely dominated by women. Despite his many tutors and masters (he retained a particular, lifelong affection for Francesco Remolines), Adriana and Giulia reigned supreme in the Orsini palace. Lucretius, never close to his natural mother Vannozza, seemed to regard both women as mothers of a sort. Yet it was another woman of that household who would prove the greatest influence on the boy Lucretius—and the man as well. 

The name of Cesarina Borgia has gone down in history as nearly synonymous with evil. She is remembered as both femme fatale and virago, seductress and poisoner, black widow and Lady Macbeth, a ruthless, corrupt Renaissance noblewoman who used her combination of beauty, charm, and intelligence to terrible effect. Borgia apologists often point to Cesarina as the true villain of the family, dragging the others with her into infamy, and the fearsome Valentino most of all. The truth, as always, is more complex, as will be seen.

In any case, she was only a girl herself at this time. Cesarina was born in 1476, the eldest child of Rodrigo and Vannozza, though often mistakenly believed to be younger than her sister Juana. In fact eleven months Juana’s senior, Cesarina grew up as a supposed niece of the Cardinal under the watchful eye of Adriana del Milà. Unlike her siblings, however, Cesarina never seemed to regard Adriana as more than a cousin and caretaker. She remained close to Vannozza, and would often retreat to her mother’s villa in times of difficulty.

No verified contemporary images of Cesarina survive, though she is widely believed to have been the model for the Virgin Mary in Pinturicchio’s “The Marriage of the Virgin.” The painting, which would have been completed when Cesarina was sixteen, shows a sober young girl with a mass of curling dark hair loose past her waist. A portrait dated ten to twenty years after her death, inscribed "Domina Caesarina,“ provides a more compelling image of her: a strikingly beautiful woman, her features even and strongly-marked, with an unusually firm chin, well-cut mouth, and straight nose. Her eyes are large and dark beneath straight brows (similar in appearance to the one surviving painting of Vannozza dei Cattanei), her complexion pale with a tinge of ruddiness, her hair a deep chestnut. Her expression is alert and good-humoured, with something of the arresting quality—above and beyond mere physical attractiveness—that appears in virtually every contemporary description. This may be our best glance at the face of Cesarina Borgia.

Whatever the real details of her appearance, all reports agree that the young Cesarina quickly grew into the beauty of a famously attractive family. In 1490, a Ferrarese ambassador wrote that the two most beautiful women in Italy were to be found in the Palazzo Montegiordano—Giulia and Cesarina. Though both could be vain enough, there is no evidence of any rivalry between the two young women; the ambassador reported that Cesarina unbraided Giulia’s coiffure so he could see her famous golden hair, falling almost to her knees. 

The same could not be said of Cesarina and Juana. Except for her fairer hair, Juana closely resembled her sister, but she lacked Cesarina’s distinctive good looks and the glamour for which she would one day be notorious. "Yesterday I saw Valencia’s eldest niece at Trastevere,” said one observer. “She possesses great beauty and a charming personality; carries herself like the daughter of a prince; she is especially lively and merry, and fond of society. Being very modest, she presents a much better and more elegant appearance than her sister, Donna Giovanna [Juana]." 

Such comparisons seem to have been common, and can scarcely have endeared Cesarina to Juana, a girl who at thirteen was already self-absorbed, careless, and dangerously vapid. Juana was also far and away the favourite daughter of Cardinal Borgia, a fact he made no attempt to hide and which Juana would flaunt at every opportunity for the rest of her life. In the circumstances, perhaps it is no surprise that the two sisters—close in age and appearance, brought up together—seem to have felt little for each other but a mixture of envy, contempt, and occasional, dutiful solidarity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare contemplates vengeance.

Now and then, Cesare wondered if Sforza imagined that he had already met the full measure of Borgia wrath. By all reports he considered his humiliation entirely unmerited. Certainly, if the foul, baseless rumours he had spread were any judge—

Cesare’s fingers tightened on his dagger. Perhaps his father  _did_ consider Lucrezia avenged already. Jofrè knew nothing. Juan—Juan was Juan. He cared more about Sforza’s slander than the bruises he had left on Lucrezia’s skin, than the cool distrust in her eyes. And that, of course, because the whispers touched him as well as Lucrezia. As if anyone could seriously believe that Lucrezia would take Juan to her bed. Not that their father would ever—and only a perverted mind could so misread Cesare’s devotion to her, or her adoration of him—but  _Juan!_ No doubt he had been added merely for the sake of completeness.

Mother, now, Mother was different. Mother clenched her soft hands and murmured about the death she would have given Sforza, had she been there. Mother still cradled Lucrezia to her when she could, and looked over her head at Cesare, her eyes as dark and furious as his own. Mother understood.

The Pope and Juan might believe the Borgias had exacted their revenge.  _Cesare_  had scarcely begun.

Even before he heard the rumours, he dreamed of how he would kill Sforza. There was always Micheletto, but he never considered that. Sforza had not brutalized  _Micheletto’s_ sister. He must die by Cesare’s hand. Remembering Djem, he considered some kind of poison—but he knew little of it, personally, and that could so easily go wrong. It would not do for Sforza to die painlessly in his sleep.

It would not do at all.

Sforza could never suffer as Lucrezia had; but he could suffer nevertheless. And it would not be brief.

He would use a knife, Cesare decided, as he had promised her long ago. And when he was done, he would give it to his sister.

Five years after Lucrezia’s ill-fated marriage, Cesare found himself staring into Giovanni Sforza’s narrow eyes. He felt a moment’s indignation—Caterina must have summoned him—then barely concealed glee. She had all but served Sforza to him on a dinner plate.

As it were.

His fingers brushed over the knife at his right hand. Heavy, sharp: but not too sharp. Sforza would die in agony.

Cesare smiled.


	4. Happily(ish) ever after AU

The Duchess of Ferrara had many friends, and many more acquaintances with whom she at least pretended to be on amicable terms. They all of them could only thank God when her desperate appeals began to taper off; though she never stopped begging that they would intercede on her brother’s behalf, she ceased to mention it in  _every_ letter, and to many it seemed that she must have finally seen the futility of her efforts.

That alone, the survivors thought afterwards, should have raised their suspicions. It did not; and, in the chaos that once more rippled outward for Rome, neither did the sudden proliferation of Ferrarese pilgrims passing through the Romagna—if anything, their presence only seemed to cool the resentment boiling throughout those troublesome lands.

The day Cesare Borgia returned to Italy, a Navarrese army at his back, the entire Romagna and half of Tuscany revolted at once.


	5. Vampire AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally no one asked for vampire!Lucrezia/human!Cesare, but here we are anyway.

It was Paolo who changed her—her sweet Paolo, so kind and innocent that she never saw him but half-starved; Paolo, who Lucrezia thought must live forever; Paolo, who a day after he finally gave her immortality, turned up in a piazza with a stake through his heart. Nobody guessed the truth at the time. She had grief enough with the death of a lover, strain enough with their son, without searching for other reasons; and all the while, Lucrezia struggled to hide, hunt, and enjoy her brother’s company without drinking his blood. 

The first year was the worst. She had no teacher, no companion, no assistance, only her wits and the scraps she dredged out of the city. Constantly hungry, she dreamed of her mother offering a goblet of blood from God knew where, of ripping Juan’s heart out, of Cesare flinging himself at her feet and offering his throat. 

By the end of the year, Cesare and Vanozza knew the truth. Her mother stopped the servants from soaking her hair, letting it revert to a deeper, wilder gold that made her look older, and helped her paint her face. Her brother ordered his manservant to procure food for her. She never went hungry again.

Lucrezia still thirsted for him.


	6. ASOIAF AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crocordile/jubah prompted "cesar/lu asoiaf" for the three-sentence meme.

Rhaecya did not remember Westeros, or Dragonstone, or anything at all; but Jaeserys, though only four, never forgot that day: their mother’s screams, the panic of the servants, stepping onto the ship with Rhaecya howling in his arms—he’d snatched her from Nurse. She remembered other things, though; Jaeserys could not keep the insults, the laughs, the jeers from her ears, the names people called their father— _was it true?_ At any rate, they learned to hold their tongue, and bury their pride, and remember, and wait: and when they walked out of the flames with dragons crawling over their shoulders, they knew their time had come.


	7. Pirate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted "cesare/lucretzia; pirate!au" for the three-sentence meme.

In retrospect, Lucrezia thought she should have known better. Neither of them could be content with a fishing village.

Oh, they lived quietly at first; Cesare had seized every ducat of his revenues before they fled, but spent only enough for a little sloop and the house–and within the year, he had the other fisherman following his direction and hanging on his word, as the other women hung on Lucrezia’s–and when the raids came, Cesare returned bloody and laughing—and then—


	8. Middle-earth!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted "Cesare/Lucretzia, Middle Earth" for the three-sentence meme.

When Telperiën was a child, silver-haired and naive, she noticed that certain people—many people—did not seem to like her very much, but could not think why. She understood as she grew older, and her ladies told her what was whispered:  _foreigner_ and  _half-breed_  and worse. 

She never heard those things herself, because Eldarion was always with her, and he did not permit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, just to clarify:
> 
> \- Lucrezia is one of Aragorn and Arwen's nameless daughters  
> \- Yes, that means Aragorn = Rodrigo  
> \- Eldarion is Cesare, of course  
> \- Arwen is Vanozza/Giulia  
> \- to my everlasting horror/delight, that leaves Faramir as Ascanio Sforza


	9. Suburban OT3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cesareborgiavevo prompted "the ot3 in a bored suburbanite setting wreaking havoc was my second choice, if u feel that one more" for the three-sentence meme.

Mrs Alfons was seen more with two strange men than Mr Alfons, though nobody dared mention it to her; they mentioned it plenty among themselves, and by the time she deigned to explain that one of the men, the handsome one, was her brother and the other a childhood friend, nobody  _wanted_ to believe it. “Mr Borja doesn’t look like her,” said Mrs Bagley delicately, and after a few uncomfortable looks (nobody wanted to say more with Mrs Rodriguez there), Mrs Collins added, “And that other one looks like a criminal, if you ask me.” Neither Mrs Alfons, nor César Borja, nor the dubious character they called Mike, was there to hear; but somehow the entire sewing circle got food poisoning the next time they went to one of Mrs Alfons’ dinners.


	10. High school AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heget/squirrelwrangler prompted "✫ Cesare(+ family)" for the luck of the die meme, and I rolled "high school."

Dr Foster (Psy.D., thank you very much, not M.D.) had met with the Canale siblings before. As the school counselor, he had most students in his office at some time or another—particularly students as difficult as the Canales. They weren’t troublemakers, except for Johnny, but trouble had a way of finding them, and anyone with eyes could see that something wasn’t right at home.

Still, he had never encountered all of them at once. Cesare and Johnny ignored each other as much as possible and, as far as Dr Foster knew, had no common interests whatsoever; Johnny had been suspended three times in the last two months and yawned through the required meetings with Dr Foster, while Cesare had been sent to him after making another student in the debate club cry. Lucrezia’s misbehavior amounted to leaving campus now and then, usually with Cesare. They were the closest of the Canales, and despite the faintest traces of physical resemblance, the most alike— _thank God_ , said Joan King, who had conscientiously failed Johnny and taught him algebra a second year. At any rate, Dr Foster had seen them separately and together, but never both with Johnny.

Dr Foster glanced from sibling to sibling, then to the teacher who had just herded all three into his office.

“Please sit down. Is something wrong?”

Johnny laughed. Lucrezia just examined her nails. Cesare looked bored.

“You haven’t heard?” said Mr Richards. “Pete Madison was injured in a fight. His parents are threatening to sue.”

“I’ve been on sick leave. What does that have to do with…”

“I broke his nose,” Johnny said cheerfully. “Then he slipped or something. I don’t know.”

Dr Foster rubbed his forehead. “Ah.”

“I’ll leave them to you,” Mr Richards said, and closed the door behind him.

Dr Foster considered the Canales. On the few occasions when he’d seen the two brothers together, Cesare had been brought in to talk to Johnny, who sometimes listened to him. Since Dr Foster didn’t speak much Spanish, he only caught  _papá_ and  _pensaría_ , but the scolding tone was unmistakable. Now, however, Cesare was silent. Lucrezia, sitting comfortably between her brothers, looked even more feline than usual.

“The fight must have been about something important,” Dr Foster said at last.

“Lu,” Johnny said.

“Sorry, what?”

“Me,” said Lucrezia. “It was about me.” Still unperturbed, she pushed a blonde curl behind her ear. “I didn’t do anything, but Pete called me a name, so Johnny hit him.”

Johnny opened his mouth.

“Don’t repeat it,” Cesare snapped. Both his siblings fell silent, Johnny sullen, Lucrezia’s lips pressed together.

“And you, Cesare? Why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” said Cesare.

“He wasn’t even there,” Lucrezia said, straightening. Her eyes went wide. “He didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s never laid a hand on Pete.”

“Not that he wouldn’t have deserved it if I had.”

Dr Foster sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the many that existed in much more elaborate form in my head—their relationship with their stepfather, the reasons they have his name (and change it later on), etc etc. C'est la vie.


	11. Role reversal AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historically, both Cesare and his brother-in-law Jean, King of Navarre, were betrayed by Julius/Fernando of Aragón, years apart. In this verse, it's Jean and his family who are imprisoned by Fernando, and they eventually escape to Italy, where the Borgias remain in power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely one of the "nobody asked for this, and yet ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯" variety.

Louise had a bruise on her shoulder, right where one of the guards had shoved her into her new rooms. The rooms were nice enough—at least, not what she thought of as a prison, except the bars over the windows—but her shoulder ached.

“Be careful with the child,” the other guard had snapped out in Castilian.

The first laughed. “This Navarrese brat?”

“The father’s Spanish.”

“The father is a Valencian bastard.”

“You tell the Roman ambassador that when he wants to know who mishandled the Pope’s granddaughter.”

The door slammed shut behind them. It was very heavy; Louise couldn’t hear anything but the wind groaning about the mountains. She got to her feet, rubbing the heels of her hands off on her skirt. Mama had told her not to worry, that she would not be harmed and they would see each other soon, but Louise wasn’t stupid. She watched, she listened. She wondered if her uncle, the great King of Navarre, was even still alive—if she would ever see her mother again—if they would kill her, too.

_The Pope’s granddaughter._

That was her. Her, Louise. Louise de Valentinois. It was strange to think of herself that way, to think of the Pope that way. To think of the Pope as someone connected to her at all. She had never seen him, after all. She had never seen his son, either: her father.

Cesar de Borja. She knew that much; he wrote letters now and then, to her uncle or her mother, and she saw his signature on them. She even saw her name sometimes:  _I am pleased by your news of Louisa_ or  _Louisa’s betrothal means nothing, of course, but it suffices for now_ or  _my regards to the duchess and Louisa._ And she’d heard other things about him.

She wondered what her father would do when he heard the Spanish king was keeping them prisoner. Would he be as confused as Louise was? Angry? Would he care at all?

Would he come for them?

Louise spent all of that night huddled on the bed, wishing for her doll, wishing more for her mother. The next day there were new, larger rooms, and a guard who called her Doña Luisa and led her by the hand to her mother. There was even a note from her uncle Jean, for Mama. He lived still. But Louise did not see him again for two months, until the day that some guards came to move them again, and instead took them outside, into the cold night air. Louise didn’t care; it was fresh and there were no bars, and she was so tired that she fell asleep on the long ride to the sea.

When she woke, the sun was rising, and her legs sore. A red-haired man helped her off her horse, giving her a strange deep bow, then without a word led them over the planks to a big ship. Mama, shaking and crying, was promptly sick, but Louise leaned over so far that the odd man had to pry her off the edge.

“Your father,” he said, “would not be pleased if you were to drown.”

Louise’s eyes went wide. “You know my father?”

The man made a harsh noise in his throat that she later decided must be what passed for a chuckle, with him.

“As far as any man does,” he said. “My name is Micheletto. I have the honour of serving Duke Valentino.” He paused, looking down at her with his blank face, and Louise wondered if her father had come for them after all. Not as she had imagined, with flags and spears, but in his own way.

Something crinkled about Micheletto’s cold eyes. “You have the look of him.”

Her mother always said so. Louise had not particularly cared, but now she found she liked the idea. “Is he a great man, my father?”

“The very greatest, madonna,” said Micheletto.


	12. Parent Trap AU

They were nine the year they met.

Lucrecia would have much rather stayed home. She wasn’t shy, but she had an odd retiring streak for so friendly a girl. Certainly nothing in the pamphlets from the Regal Camp for Christian Children appealed to her in the slightest. Even school sounded better. At least she knew the people there. And they didn’t have giant crucifixes.

Lucrecia didn’t mind crucifixes, as such. Her mother had one on the wall at home. But she felt sure that they shouldn’t be life-size or glow in the dark.

 _He_  agreed on every point before ever setting eyes on her. In him, nobody could even pretend to be surprised.

At first, Lucrecia would have sworn that she hated him. She scarcely knew him, but that didn’t matter. The girls and boys all disliked each other. It was practically a rule of the camp. Besides, the boys threw eggs at her cabin on the second night, and the girls had to spend half the next day scrubbing it off while the sun beat down on them. Except for Julia, Lucrecia didn’t much like the other girls, but she cheerfully joined in on the plan for revenge. 

It was simple, which she liked. They’d just sneak into the other cabin while the boys were at Bible study, take their nicest things, and hold them captive until … something. They should at least have to say they were sorry.

Everything went perfectly, too, right up until Lucrecia’s shin hit the corner of the nearest bedpost.

“Ouch!”

Horrifyingly, she heard a boy’s voice snap out, “Who’s there?”

Lucrecia froze, her hand on a small pile of books. Her mind was completely blank. She just snatched up one of the books and ran out of the room.

In the hallway, she saw one of the boys, vaguely familiar from two camp-wide dinners. She only recognized him at all because his brown hair was as curly as hers. He couldn’t be much older than she was, but he stood three or four inches taller, with a dent in his chin and big brown eyes.

The eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? This isn’t—hey! That’s mine!”

Lucrecia looked down at the book in her hands, then at him. She ran.

She could hear his steps pounding behind her; she darted through the halls so fast that her chest felt like it might burst, and she could still hear him behind her, shouting something she didn’t catch. Determined to avoid punishment, desperate in the panic of the moment, Lucrecia swerved away from the direct path to the front door, towards the bathroom—at least where the bathroom was in the girls’ cabin. 

It  _was_. She ran inside, locking the door behind her, and looked around while she waited for his footsteps to die away altogether. Then she hoisted herself up onto the windowsill, pulled out the screen, and climbed out of the window, book in hand. 

Lucrecia didn’t see anyone. She took a deep breath, then headed back towards the girls’ cabin, as calmly as she could. 

“Hey!”

She looked over her shoulder; it was him, flushed,  _really_ angry now. Even though her legs felt like rubber, Lucrecia ran again. If the leaders saw—no, they  _couldn’t_. She veered off towards the pond, path cutting through a small stretch of forest, forbidden at this time of day. It was no good. She could hear him gaining on her.

She was still trying to think of some new idea when he grabbed her.

“Give me my—”

“Let go of me!”

Lucrecia slammed her heel into his sandaled foot. Rather than letting go of her, though, his fingers tightened even as he lost his balance. He crashed into her, knocking both of them to the ground. For a skinny boy of nine, he was heavy. She could hardly breathe. Lucrecia, refusing to give up, kicked and smacked him.

“Get off!”

“I want my book!” He fought back, wrestling her for the book. She twisted, arms wrapped around it. If he wanted to take the stupid thing—

“Give it back! It’s  _mine!_ ”

Lucrecia was too breathless to shout back. She did her best to roll over, but it was hard and—

And he was laughing, out of nowhere. He stopped trying to peel her fingers off and just lay there, sprawled awkwardly over her, one hand holding her wrist—he’d grabbed it after she tried to scratch him—and the other pressed against the dirt.

“Come on,” he said. “Did you even look at the title?”

Lucrecia glared at him. She should just be angrier—but all of a sudden, it  _was_ funny. She didn’t have any idea what it was. She didn’t really have any idea who he was. 

She giggled. 

“No,” she said. With a long sigh, she set the book aside. 

The boy promptly picked it up and rolled off her, eyeing her as if she might attack at any moment. 

“What were you doing?” he demanded. His mouth still twitched at the corners.

Lucrecia thought about sitting up, but she was tired, and afternoon light leaked through the leafy tangle overhead. She stretched out, the sunshine just bright enough to warm her face and arms. The boy didn’t worry her; now that he had his precious book back, whatever it was, he didn’t seem threatening at all.

“Getting revenge,” she said.

“Oh,” said the boy. He flopped down beside her. “All right.”

She blinked slowly, almost sleepy. “Is it your favourite or something?”

He flipped through the pages and shook them until a piece of paper fell out. No, a picture. An old, faded picture of a ballerina. He set the book aside and held the picture up.

“No,” he said. “It was my mother’s.”

Lucrecia summoned up enough energy to turn her head to the side, peering at the photo.

“Is that her? She’s pretty.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a better picture at home, but I like this one. It’s not ripped and—and my dad says she loved dancing.”

“She looks a little like my mom.” Lucrecia sat up and reached for the book. Now she noticed that the jacket was completely blank, just yellow paper. The boy’s look turned suspicious again, so she smiled. “I just want to see.”

He actually reddened. “No, I—”

Lucrecia, crawling out of reach, slipped off the jacket. She blinked several times, then giggled again. 

“A Little Princess?”

“I  _told_ you, it was Mama’s.” He sat up too, reached out a peremptory hand. “Give it to me.”

She handed it to him, laughter reshaped into sympathy. “Where is she now?”

Carefully, he put the jacket back on. “Dead.”

Lucrecia’s eyes want wide. “Oh, I didn’t … sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t really remember. My dad says it’s probably better that way.”

“My mom says the same thing,” said Lucrecia. “About my father, I mean. She hardly tells me anything about him.” She inched closer, looking down at the picture again. “She really does look like Mom. But she can’t dance. Was your mother really a dancer? Or was it a costume or something?”

“She was a famous ballerina,” he said proudly. “Her name was Vanozza.”

Lucrecia smiled. “My mom’s name is Vanessa.” Then her eyes opened wide. “But you probably don’t know  _my_ name. I don’t remember yours, anyway, if I heard it at all.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, his gaze turning to her, curious. He set down both book and picture.

“I’m Lucrecia Cattanei.” She held out her hand, like she’d seen her mother do. In the next moment, she thought it must seem weird and old to him, but he’d already solemnly shaken her hand.

“César Borja,” he said.


	13. Vanozza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for more details about Vanozza's backstory in _we get dark, only to shine_.

Rodrigo was far from the first man to share Vanozza’s bed. That dubious honour belonged to a priest in her native city, who developed such a passion for sixteen-year-old Juana de Castañeda that he brought her with him when he left Toledo for Rome. Juana became Giovanna, then Vanozza, while her lovers became lords and cardinals.

It was one of the latter who first introduced her to Rodrigo Borja, newly-minted Vice-Chancellor, and nephew to the new Pope. No doubt he knew more details of her history than Vanozza, herself, cared to remember; priests gossiped worse than fishwives. He certainly knew that he would not be her first.

He did not seem to care. Vanozza supposed that a man did not seek virgins among the  _cortigiane oneste_ , but others had certainly cringed away from any reminders. Rodrigo shrugged off her lovers and husband with equal ease, always more interested in affairs of the present and possibilities of the future than dredging up the past. By the time he established her in a respectable villa, he contented himself with insisting on fidelity, and bribing away the husband she had recklessly married two years before

“Have you heard the news?” he said one morning, sweeping into her chambers in a blur of red and gold. Twenty years her senior, he was still a handsome man, one of the few who could carry off the shapeless, dreary robes with any real elegance. Unlike the usual crop of papal nephews, he rarely wore anything else.

“I always hear news,” replied Vanozza. She bit off a thread.

He laughed. “For shame, Vanozza. Is that how you receive good tidings from all your countrymen?”

“Since when are we—” She chanced to look up, caught the jubilation in his face and quick step. “King Enrique is dead?”

“At last!” Rodrigo paused, then crossed himself with every appearance of sincerity. “God rest his soul.”

She murmured after him, not aspiring to the enthusiastic contradictions of his nature. “And the Infanta Isabel is—”

Rodrigo poured a glass of wine and raised it to her. “ _Viva la reina._ ”

“Queen Isabel,” Vanozza said, slow enough that the syllables lingered on her tongue. “I heard that she is very pious. Even if they prove themselves poor monarchs, this may be good for the Church.”

“They can hardly be worse than Enrique,” he said. “At least they have character. We decided in their favour long ago.”

She gave him a sharp look. “You and our Holy Father? The Church?” The Corona de Aragón? The boy from Xàtiva had risen high enough that he could comfortably roll Aragón, Cataluña, Valencia, Majorca, Sicilia, and Sardinia into  _we_. But he might just as easily mean the Borgias alone. Between Pope, Vice-Chancellor, and duke-gonfaloniere, it made little difference any more.

“Of course,” said Rodrigo. 


	14. Cesare/Lucrezia, Modern AU + Vampire AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted, "Kind of went for the crackiest idea I could think of: vampire Borgias, if they lived into the modern day."

The Valencians were cheating.

“Again,” Lucrezia said dismally. 

Cesare, who could be old-fashioned in his way, turned a page of the newspaper. “The Generalitat? They’ve been falsifying statistics for years.”

“No.” She waved at the television, where a heavyset man in an apron kissed a young woman’s cheeks. “See? He’s acting like nothing happened.”

Cesare squinted. “What are you watching? Are those … chefs? You can’t even cook.”

“I don’t watch for the cooking,” said Lucrezia, turning it off. She slumped back against the sofa, nerves on edge. “How long are we going to stay here?”

They preferred to live in cities, both for ease of hunting and for passing at least a decade or so unnoticed. They’d only been four years in Madrid, this time. 

“You don’t like it?”

Lucrezia shrugged. “I’m bored.”

After a serious look, he set his newspaper aside. She just caught a glimpse of a headline, something about a commission investigating some report or other. 

“Bored of Madrid? Or—?”

“Madrid.” She gave a crooked smile. “I’m going to bite the president if we stay much longer.”

“Not King Felipe?” He lifted an eyebrow, as he always did when not quite insincere: five hundred years and counting. “I thought you preferred royalty, sis.”

“I prefer power. Blood is blood, otherwise.” 

“Well,” said Cesare, “I leave the matter to your discretion, but I don’t imagine Rajoy would make much of a vampire. Personally, I think he’s lived quite long enough.”

She shuddered. “Ugh. And now I’m hungry.”

“Well, then.” He stood, stretching. Cesare didn’t tower over crowds as he had in their youth, but he remained a tall man. Lucrezia watched, divided between appreciation and envy;  _she_ was a very small woman these days. When she met his eyes, he grinned. “Let’s find you an accountant, hm?”


	15. Borgias, Political AU (USA)

**BREAKING NEWS** _._ BORJA WINS ELECTION  
  
AP—With all votes counted, Speaker of the House Rodrigo Borja (D-CA) has won a narrow popular victory over his Republican opponent, Senator Julius Rove (R-WY). The electoral victory was decisive, with Borja winning 358 electoral votes, helped by strong support from female, Latino, and African-American voters. The Democratic victory makes for a new historical first: Borja, the son of Ecuadorian immigrants, will be America’s first Hispanic president.   
  
[picture]  
_President-elect Rodrigo Borja with running mate Katharine Powers (left), his wife Julie (center), son Juan (right), and daughter Lucrecia (far right)_  
  
Senator Rove’s campaign has yet to discuss the candidate’s concession…

* * *

DEMS SWEEP CALIFORNIA

SF Chronicle—Since 1988, California has been friendly territory for Democrats. This year proved no exception. The polls that gave Rodrigo Borja a double-digit lead in his native California underrated his actual performance on Election Day: a whopping 31-point victory.

Californians also voted overwhelmingly for Democrats in local and state races, once again granting the Democratic Party a supermajority. In an unsurprising but significant turn of events, the district formerly represented in Congress by Rodrigo Borja handed a resounding victory to twenty-five-year-old César Borja. Mr Borja, an attorney, is nephew of the President-elect and faced accusations of nepotism throughout the campaign. In the long run, however, his familiar face did him no harm with voters: Borja won the district with a 17-point margin.

* * *

LUCRECIA BORJA: AMERICAN PRINCESS?

_Profile of the First Daughter_

People—Lucrecia Borja, 21, is no stranger to the public eye. Her father, President Rodrigo Borja, has been active in Washington since long before her birth. Her mother is Canadian actress Vanessa Gautier, known better as Sephrenia on HBO’s  _The Diamond Throne_ than as the president’s ex-wife. 

“If you look close, you can see my first baby picture in  _Byzantium_ ,” Ms Borja jokes. Gautier, who co-starred in the film and snagged an Oscar nomination for her performance as Theodora, was pregnant at the time. Fourteen years later, a third nomination proved the opportunity for Lucrecia’s first major public appearance, in which she famously upstaged superstar Sasha Darby. As first daughter, she has become an indisputable fashion icon, described by Vogue as “Malia Obama meets Jackie Kennedy.”

[picture]

_Lucrecia with her cousin, Rep. César Borja (D-CA), at her first White House State Dinner; she is wearing a Valentino dress priced at $10,000_

However, Lucrecia Borja is far more than a (spectacular) clothes horse. Educated at a private school in Montreal, she speaks four languages and hopes to acquire more, serving as a sort of unofficial ambassador for her father. On top of all this, she expects to graduate this June from Harvard, where—suitably enough—she has studied political science and business…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably obvious, but I wrote this before the election. It was mostly spawned by my bemusement that modern US versions of the Borgia politicians seemed to be just about everything except ... uh, politicians. I can see why people would prefer to keep overt politics out of fic, and of course the various other analogues aren't wrong, but I was genuinely surprised that the most obvious and straightforward approach wasn't just rare but virtually nonexistent. Even very specific issues, like Rodrigo's treatment of refugees and conspiracy theories about how they weren't Real Christians, translate very easily to US politics of 2016-7.
> 
> These days, the AU where the country is taken over by a family of ambitious, nepotistic, cutthroat elites who lurch from scandal to scandal, but nevertheless manage to secure fair-minded oversight of the criminal justice system, overhaul and modernization of infrastructure, and legal acceptance of immigrants ... well, that timeline looks a lot brighter than I had really envisioned at the time.
> 
> Meanwhile, fellow Eddings fans: yes, that timeline's _Game of Thrones_ is an adaptation of the Elenium/Tamuli instead. Somehow, I was vaguely imagining it has all the same actors, though? Like, Lena Headey as Sephrenia/Vanessa, Stephen Dillane as Dolmant, Sophie Turner as Ehlana, Jack Gleeson as Lycheas ...


	16. f!Juan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why f!Juan fic was one of the first things I wrote for this fandom, but it was.

Cesare did not love Juana as he did Lucrezia; but still, she was his sister. She was a Borgia. And unlike both Cesare and Lucrezia, she was a very poor liar. 

He read over her letter again. Beside him, Lucrezia dipped her fingers in the fountain, then gazed soberly at him.

“It isn’t good news, is it?" 

"I am afraid not, sis,” said Cesare. “She says that Lord Sforza makes for an … ungallant husband.”

Her brow creased. “You mean that he is cruel to her? But he must know Papa—”

“The likes of the Sforzas don’t understand family. And even so, he didn’t intend for us to find out. He reads her other letters.” He hesitated, then held out the one in his hands, pointing at the dirt stains. “She smuggled this one out through the groom.”

“The  _groom?_ Whatever for?”

Cesare had his suspicions. He kept them to himself. “Access to the horses, I imagine." 

"Oh!” Skimming her fingers along the surface of the water, her mouth pulled to one side. “What are we going to do? Papa needs the Sforza armies. But we can't  _leave_ her there!”

“Leave whom?” Vanozza walked towards then from the house, trailed by a discreet manservant. Cesare, studying him, wondered just whom he reported to. Father, hopefully.

“Juana’s lonely,” said Lucrezia.

“The Sforzas have never been an amusing lot,” Cesare said lightly. “This one may not have their usual … vigour, but he’s as disagreeable and humourless as all the rest of them. Lucrezia and I were thinking that poor Juana might appreciate our company.”

“For once,” muttered Lucrezia.

Cesare could feel Vanozza’s gaze on him. He busied himself with folding the letter as ostentatiously as he could, refusing to meet her eyes. His mother had a way of perceiving his thoughts that had often proved a comfort—but not today. 

“All three of you?”

“Pesaro is a little bleak for Jofré,” he said. Finally certain he had mastered himself, he looked straight into Vanozza’s dark eyes, smiling. “But I think Lucrezia could use some time away from Rome. Do you not, Mother?”

She hesitated. 

“It would be a different matter if she travelled  _alone_ , of course. But I shall be with her. You have my word that I will not leave her side, not for a moment.”

“If anything should happen—”

Cesare laughed. “If the Gonfaloniere of the Church cannot protect his own sister, what good is he? And the most honourable and trustworthy of my men shall escort us.”

“You must speak to your father about this,” she said.

Cesare bowed. After she returned to the house, he turned to Lucrezia. She was grinning, eyes bright.

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” he said, “except call on our sister, as is only proper. Now  _you_ should prepare yourself for the journey and  _I_ ”—he tipped her chin—“shall go make the arrangements.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re going to try and keep secrets from me, brother? How tiresome.”

“It’s the way of brothers to be tiresome,” he said, and Lucrezia smiled despite herself, then flounced towards the house. She paused on the doorstep. “Cesare?”

Cesare sighed. “Yes, Lucrezia?”

She threw him a mischievous glance over her shoulder. “Shall your funny-looking manservant accompany you?”

He stared at her. Then he laughed aloud. “It wouldn’t be the same without him.”

* * *

Juana dreamed of killing Lord Sforza. Sometimes she imagined slipping poison into his wine, pressing a pillow over his face, stabbing him when he reached for her. She imagined that Paolo’s adjustment to his saddle had broken his spine and not his leg. She imagined—oh, she imagined his death over, and over, and over, and reminded herself of the armies, and endured for a time.  _  
_

Then she kissed Paolo and pressed a letter into his hands.

“Ride as fast as you can,” she said. Pope’s daughter or not, it would go poorly for her if the letter were discovered; if would go worse for Paolo, of course, if he were caught stealing his lord’s quickest horse.

Then she waited. Now she dreamed not of her husband’s death but her lover’s, her own. She held herself so stiffly that Francesca could scarcely clean her shoulders. Juana flinched every time she heard a heavy male step—though Sforza could only walk with the aid of his cane—and rode out as often as she could. 

It was on one of those days that she heard the distant thunder of men approaching the manor. Juana herself had only just returned and was climbing off her mare. Her hands clutched at her skirts as they came clattering into view, a dozen or so men led by a man in black and a golden-haired woman. There was no sign of Paolo—or Paolo’s body—yet she certainly had not expected—

Juana stared at the woman. Not a woman at all. A girl.

_“Lucrezia?”_

Lucrezia laughed, galloping ahead of the man—Cesare. His companions were familiar, too: four or five skilled swordsmen from the families of their most trusted allies, others from Spain, vassals out of Valencia and Catalonia. Her eyes drifted from her brother’s men, to her brother, who had never liked her, to Lucrezia, sliding off her own mare and running towards her with a bright smile.

“Juana!”

Her family had come for her.


	17. Murder present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been wondering how the “I got you an assassin for your wedding present” conversation went down. 
> 
> (I am also personally convinced that Micheletto was under orders to see Ferdinand creatively punished.)

“You’re giving me Micheletto?" 

Cesare’s mouth curved a little: the closest thing to a smile Lucrezia had seen since she crawled into his bed, and it quickly vanished.

"Your esteemed uncle,” he said, almost spitting the words out, “may not yet see sense. If not—”

 _He will meet my wrath_ , he had said, but Lucrezia had feared the promise empty, or forgotten. Despite herself, she felt her anger ebbing away, her own lips curling up—Cesare was Cesare still, and what was Micheletto but the instrument of his will?

After all his nonsense about turning from her, Cesare drew closer, near enough that his body blocked out everything else from her vision. He brushed her cheek, her loose hair catching in his fingers again, but his mouth was grim, her own rage burning in his eyes.

“Now,” he added, “he has far more to pay for than taking you from Giovanni.”

She remembered the king’s lecherous eyes on her, his comments to Cesare, not even bothering to lower his voice, his laughter. Lucrezia’s fingers curled into fists. 

“Does Micheletto always kill quickly?”

“No.” Cesare pressed a kiss, chaste and yet not, against her hair. “Take all the time you want, sis.”


End file.
